


Diagnosis

by narsus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Implied Relationships, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-08
Updated: 2010-11-08
Packaged: 2017-10-13 03:18:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/132263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narsus/pseuds/narsus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is less than impressed with Sherlock's self-diagnosis via Google.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Diagnosis

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss & Steven Moffat, and obviously in the genesis of it all, to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

The mug of Horlicks that John cradles to his chest is practically scalding but it helps him think. The extra warmth helps stabilise his temperature in the increasingly colder weather. He could, of course, go put on warmer clothing but today, having come home from his regular surgery with a chill, he prefers to sit about in pyjamas instead. That sort of attire is usually Sherlock's thing but at the moment Sherlock is out and John is still a little cold and tired. He'd left early, making his apologies and listing his symptoms. He'd been shaking a little, had kept losing his focus and his eyes had started falling closed. They'd let him go readily, with sympathetic smiles and worried eyes. He'd evidently looked as bad as he felt. Of course he knows what his symptoms mean: he'd had enough sleep the night before but he hadn't eaten properly, rushing to finish breakfast so that he wouldn't be late. His body had rejected breakfast as a result, leaving him low on nutrients. Then he'd forgotten to take an umbrella and, in the hurry to remain on time, he'd been soaked by the heavy downpour. He hadn't expected it to be quite as bad as it was when he'd left the flat and by the time he'd realised that he could have done with an umbrella it had been a little late to turn back. He'd arrived completely soaked and had sat there, in a badly heated room, with wet hair for at least an hour. He'd only sneezed a few times so he'd resorted to hot coffee as a suitable method of warming himself up. In retrospect, he ought to have realised something was wrong when he'd lingered with his hands under the dryer in the toilets just that little bit longer than necessary.

He'd tried to carry on of course and had pushed himself until he'd realised that if he kept it up any longer he wouldn't be in any shape to make it home. In fact, he'd narrowly missed passing out on the desk at one point, and that had prompted him to leave. On the way back he'd told himself that the first thing he'd do was take a hot shower and then go to bed. In fact, as soon as he'd arrived the first thing he'd had to do was strip off wet clothes and towel dry his hair. The rain hadn't been quite as bad on the way back but it hadn't been helpful either. After that he'd been tired enough that hopping straight into the shower had seemed like far too much work, so he'd pulled on pyjama bottoms, a thermal long-sleeved t-shirt, thick socks and finally, his dressing gown. Except, while he was definitely too tired to do much, he wasn't really tired enough to sleep. Horlicks had seemed like a good option then, something to warm him up and promote restful associations which might be enough to facilitate a nap. Which was how he'd ended up on the couch with a mug cradled to his chest, at least initially.

John's long given up on that nap and concedes that he'll probably just go to bed early instead. On his second mug and waiting for his Tesco's Shepherd's pie to cook in the oven, he's resigned to puzzling out the latest problem that's presenting itself in regards to shared living arrangements. Both medicine and military service have taught him the benefit of a well thought out pre-emptive strike after all. In fact, even though he hasn't consciously considered the matter until now, he is aware that he actually started gathering data about a fortnight ago. Sherlock would be proud of him John thinks in some amusement, if only Sherlock himself wasn't actually the problem.

About two weeks ago John had started noticing some odd behaviours on Sherlock's part, in comparison to Sherlock's usual pattern. John knows that Sherlock revels in ignoring common convention, most of the time because he simply doesn't see why it should be allowed to get in the way of his efficiency. Occam's Razor isn't quite the principle that John's thinking of but it's along the same lines. The shortest distance between two points is a straight line. John recalls the basic principle in a mathematical sense because geometry was always easier for him to parse than Latin. Sherlock joins the dots and doesn't care about the manmade and artificial obstacles in between. He doesn't see the need for them and he takes great delight in revealing just how pointless they are. He exasperates people by doing it, drives them to childish insults or posturing displays of their own petty knowledge. Usually he doesn't care, but that's only because he finds the additional points placed in between to be unnecessary. He can navigate them if he chooses to, and when he does, he does so with aplomb. Sherlock is very good at pretending at a role, always accurate when he takes the time to read a situation using social cues. It's just that he usually doesn't bother to.

Usually it's never a problem. John's there to act as damage control and Sherlock's quite happy to let him do it. The problem isn't Sherlock: its other people. Which is probably why John started noticing the sudden abundance of medical literature on mental disorders that showed up in his browser history. Initially it hadn't been hidden and he'd scrolled back through what amounted to a list of almost every google hit for diagnostic methods. He'd tried to bring the topic up, supposing that it was either something to do with a case or at least a topic of interest that they could talk about. He'd found his browser history cleared after that, and he'd supposed that perhaps that was an end to it. Then he'd noticed that the search results had started to narrow down. Sherlock might clear the browser history and, after a while, the browser cashe too but he hadn't touched the index.dat file. Probably because he would have been forced to set up another login with which to clear it with and then have to go to the trouble of deleting that login again so that John wouldn't notice. Or perhaps, John will admit, because it hasn't crossed Sherlock's mind that John would know to look at a dat file anyway. There are some things about him that Sherlock hasn't yet figured out and that thought is amusing enough by itself. If only he'd discovered that under less troubling circumstances.

Why Sherlock hadn't used his own laptop escapes John, though he suspects that it's either because Sherlock's browser history is equally filled with similar searches and Sherlock uses either depending on convenience, or because, as a medical man, he wants John's opinion on the matter. Not that Sherlock would necessarily come out and say so directly. Initially Sherlock had been looking at methods for behavioural diagnosis, then he'd narrowed his search to developmental disorder diagnosis specifically, then the autism spectrum and finally Asperger's syndrome. In particular, once he'd reached that point he'd been focused on the physical clumsiness part of the diagnosis before moving on to the issue of lacking nonverbal communication skills. The issue with nonverbal communication seemed to intrigue him the most and John had found himself trawling through pages that often repeated the same information, just in varying formats. It stood to reason that someone as observant, as _aware_ , of the nonverbal as Sherlock would be intrigued by the idea of not being able to read those signs at all. The thought had struck John that perhaps Sherlock was going to start diagnosing Anderson with Asperger's because the man never knew when to shut up unless directly ordered to, but if that was the case then Sherlock would have mentioned it before now. He wouldn't be accumulating data and then trying to hide it. Anderson was fair game and if he'd been the object of Sherlock's research then John would already have been called on to corroborate a diagnosis. Besides, it wasn't that Anderson didn't recognise nonverbal cues anyway. Which left Mycroft as the other, more likely, possibility, especially if Sherlock was trying to hide the evidence. Except Mycroft didn't just recognise nonverbal cues, he anticipated them.

There is a third possibility of course. One that John doesn't want to think about, so instead he stands up to make himself another mug of something, probably Horlicks again, because he isn't in the mood for tea or coffee and isn't nearly chilled enough anymore to be drinking boiled water with sugar and cinnamon in it. Unfortunately, he's been sat awkwardly, because usually he sits in the armchair, since the couch is Sherlock's domain, and now his leg isn't responding entirely as it ought to. Sitting down again isn't an option because that won't help his circulation so he proceeds to hobble round the coffee table, muttering darkly about psychoneuroimmunology, which is of course to blame for his morning in general. If only he'd managed to keep down breakfast, events might have transpired somewhat differently. Of course Sherlock chooses that moment to return home and the sight of John hobbling awkwardly across the room surprises him enough that he drops his keys.

"John?" Sherlock starts towards him.  
"Better get those." John nods to the keys, now half under Sherlock's foot.  
Sherlock fumbles picking up the keys, eyes on John limping into the kitchen. John pretends not to notice and makes a note not to phrase anything in terms of motor control.

"Are you...?"  
"Fine. I'm fine."

John puts the kettle on and sets out another mug. He doesn't bother asking Sherlock if he wants anything and pulls out his stash of oolong tea. Sherlock's shown no interest in it but they can both have a cup anyway. It'll help John get through the conversation that he knows is coming.

"Was it a..." Sherlock is standing right behind John now.  
"Relapse?" John adds a pinch of tea leaves to each mug.

Sherlock doesn't move, evidently waiting for an answer. John waits for the kettle to boil and the circulation to return to his leg.

"I'm fine. Just sat down funny. You know, dead legged myself."

The tea timing alarm John's set on his laptop, to time his Shepherd's pie, goes off at that moment.

"Get that, will you?" He says over his shoulder, picking up the oven gloves.

He has the oven door open and is grasping the tray when he realises that not only has Sherlock acquiesced to his request but is now staring at the open browser window.

"About that-"  
"How did you-"  
"Dat file. You have to create another profile to clear it."  
For an instant Sherlock smiles, then the expression fades. "All that: research of course."  
"Of course."  
"Your pie's going to burn."  
"Right. Kettle's boiled."

John doesn't even try to get the oven meal out of its plastic container and puts the whole lot on a plate. Beside him, Sherlock pours hot water into the mugs and watches the loose leaves curiously.

"Better fish those out really."  
"What?"  
"Oolong shouldn't be over-brewed."  
Sherlock opens his mouth as it to stay something but then shuts it and settles on watching John curiously.  
"I drink cardamom tea too." After a moment's debate, John picks up two tablespoons and puts them on the plate with the food.

Settling on the couch John tucks his foot under himself as he sits down. He'll probably dead leg himself again, but now that he has reasonable use of that leg again, he's not going to miss a chance to make use of its comfortable mobility. After a moment's hesitation, Sherlock carries the tea over carefully. He sits down beside John and John wriggles a foot partially under Sherlock's knee. Eating with a spoon, out of a plastic container, isn't the optimum way to eat a decent meal but it'll do, John long ago decided. Somehow they manage to balance the plate between them and John's already savouring a mouthful of mince and rehydrated potato, when he notices that Sherlock delicately marks out a spoonful with the tip of his spoon, before actually scooping it out. They finish the portion between them and a small fight ensues over the last vegetable pieces. Sherlock wins but then graciously tips the remaining two peas and a carrot cube into John's spoon instead.

"Definitely not lacking in motor skills." John says aloud as he leans forwards to put the plate on the table.  
"What?"  
"You. There's nothing wrong with your motor skills."  
"I told you-"  
"It was research." John hands Sherlock a mug of oolong tea and settles back against the couch with his own. "Why would it matter anyway?"  
"Sometimes... I can't... I'm clumsy." Sherlock stares into his mug.  
"Only sometimes."  
"Often enough."  
"Not in a lab."  
"No."  
"Or when you're making tea."  
"No, I was concentrating then."  
"Limited empathy as well then?" John asks, deliberately sounding casual.  
"Yes."  
"I didn't see any evidence of that."  
"John, you-"  
"You thought I'd had a relapse. You were worried."  
"You don't count."  
"That bruise on Mycroft's jaw the other week. You thought someone had hit him."  
"I was right."  
"She didn't mean it: it was an accident."  
Sherlock shrugs. "My brother doesn't count either."  
"I shot a man, and laughed about it afterwards."  
"You're a soldier."  
"So we both have limited empathy."  
"Apparently."  
"And that doesn't bother you." It's a conclusion not a question.

John sips his tea and mulls it over. Empathy isn't the issue: For all that it matters they may as well be a pair of sociopaths sitting together drinking tea. The 'greater good' outweighs regular considerations. In Sherlock's case that means being able to exercise his intellect: in John's it means... John shakes his head. He knows full well what it means but he's not yet ready to consciously admit to anything.

"Would you really have scalped a man for hitting your brother?"  
"Of course."  
"Even if it'd been a fair fight?"  
"It wasn't. It was someone close to Mycroft, someone he trusted. Someone he was trying to protect. So, conclusion: potential romantic liaison."  
"With his assistant?"  
"I didn't know it was her."  
"You figured Mycroft's new boyfriend took a swing at him?"  
Sherlock's gaze slides sideways. "It was an accident."  
"Yes."  
"If she hadn't dropped her hand like that the box would have fallen on him."  
"So... that was good then."  
Sherlock nods.  
"Why-" John stops himself.  
"Mycroft dates military men exclusively."  
Which is news to John.  
"Anyone holding a Major's rank and above is fair game."  
"So... I'm in with a chance then?" John teases.  
Sherlock's eyes narrow.  
"Kidding. Just kidding." John focuses on his tea.  
"Besides, you're mine."  
"Right." John agrees automatically, stops to think about it, and finally decides that it's not worth arguing at the current time.

They're getting away from the point but then their conversations are always like that, unless they involve a case. John could try to raise the issue again, by pointing out that all Sherlock's doing is just what thousands of first year medical students do every year, and he could conclude that statement with the fact that Sherlock ought not to worry, because by the third year he'll suddenly become incredibly good looking. John coughs to cover the urge to laugh. He doesn't recall any change in himself but, by the third year, suddenly every man around him had been replaced by a strangely attractive counterpart.

Sherlock notices the change in John's mood anyway and eyes him speculatively.  
"No problems with nonverbal communication then." John observes.  
"You don't know that." Sherlock looks away.  
"I'm a doctor, remember."  
"You're too closely involved with the... subject."  
"I'm not, and your nonverbal communication is fine. That's my professional opinion."  
"Wrong."  
"Sherlock!"  
"I'm not insulting your intelligence or professional pride-"  
"Could've fooled me."  
"You're looking at the wrong diagnostic criteria, _doctor_."  
"What should I be looking at then? You can communicate nonverbally, easily. You do it _all the time_."  
"It's not whether or not I _can_ communicate nonverbally: it's whether or not I can understand it." There's a tremor, ever so faint, in his voice as he says it.  
"Okay, fine. Let's say that you could, possibly, have issues with that. Then what? Why does it matter?"  
"Why does it- Because it changes things."  
"What does it change? Tell me."  
"Everything. If I can't interpret nonverbal communication correctly, if I can't even perceive it correctly then... then I'm useless."  
"You're not useless. You're anything but."  
"Think about it, John. What if I _can't_ really understand basic human communication? How can I trust my own judgement if I can't even tell what I'm looking at?"  
"But that's just it: you _do_ understand 'basic human communication'. You understand it better than... well, everyone. You can always tell. All the details, Sherlock: you see each and every one. Name me one other person who can."  
"Mycroft."  
"Your brother doesn't count."

Sherlock smiles down at his tea, swirls the dregs around and then swallows them down.

"You bloody well don't have Asperger's."  
"But it could be something on the autism spectrum."  
"No, it couldn't. Well, maybe but..."  
"Poor motor control is-"  
"Do you know _why_ you have selectively poor motor skills?" With vehemence.  
"John?"  
"For the same reason you have a selective short term memory. You don't remember to put the milk back in the fridge because you can't be bothered to. It... takes up unnecessary space on your harddrive. You can't be bothered to move the papers: it's not that you can't!"

Sherlock's face goes blank, then his mouth opens in a soundless 'oh' of understanding. John takes the empty mug from him and proceeds to clear up. Of course it's possible that Sherlock could have some kind of developmental disorder, in particular one that would interfere with his ability to engage in social interaction, but from what John's seen there simply isn't enough conclusive data to come up with a diagnosis. Sherlock's intense study of body language could in fact be the result of a poor intuitive understanding on his part or it might be a stereotypically 'intense interest' that would fit the diagnostic criteria. His refusal to engage in regular social norms might be deliberate, which John feels it is, or it might be the product of a poor understanding of social engagement. Even his selectively poor motor skills might support a diagnosis just as easily as it could disprove it. It's not something John wants to attempt either way. There are no conclusive answers after all, there rarely are. John doesn't even care, either way and he'd say it aloud too, but it matters to Sherlock. It matters to Sherlock that he _is_ capable of reading nonverbal cues, that he's capable of empathy. It matters not because of a clinical diagnosis but because of what that diagnosis means in Sherlock's mind, because to him if the verdict is that he's anything less than perfect then he's useless. It's nonsense really. Sherlock is Sherlock: brilliant, brave, reckless and... John smiles to himself: he's not yet ready to add the last part, even in inside his own head.

"What matters isn't the diagnosis anyway." John begins. "What matters is functionality."  
"Yes, but-"  
" _Functionality_ , Sherlock. Whether or not you can manage whatever it is that you need to manage."  
Sherlock looks like he's pondering that.  
"One of the psychiatrists I trained under had DID."  
"What?"  
"Never diagnosed. Never even let them suspect, but it was there. Proper trauma split model too."  
"Are you going to tell me that... he? She? Was functional?"  
"Yes. He was."  
"Then how did you-"  
"I was one of his best students."  
"Of course." The words sound vaguely breathless.  
"Named his 'other half' after a Jungian archetype too." John says with a nostalgic smile.  
Sherlock stares at him for a long moment before he starts to laugh.

**Author's Note:**

> Not that there's anything in any of the comics to suggest that Jonathan Crane has DID or that Scarecrow is deliberately meant to be Trickster...


End file.
